Come Back For Me
by Allie773
Summary: "He loved something; he set it free, and guess what? It can't come back. Not ever, and that's the root to this whole breakdown Dean's having." Pretty much just me, going into detail Dean's depression after Sam jumped into The Pit. !Angsty !BrokenDean !SlightAlcoholism !Swearing !BigBrotherDean !MentionsOfSam !ShortFic !PostSwanSong
1. Flooding The Senses

I'm back, yet again, with another angsty short fic. If you're in the mood for some **Post Swan Song/Pre Season 6** worry, guilt, and overall sadness (but **not suicidal**), then this is probably right up your alley. :)

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**Disclaimer- I do not own the boys, Supernatural, The CW, or anything else that I'm forgetting. All I own are the typos. ;) Have fun reading!**

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Ever heard the phrase "If you love something, set it free; if it comes back, it's meant to be?" Yeah? Well so has Dean, _whoop-de-fuckin'-do_. He had never thought about it, or any phrase really, that was more Sa- _his little brother's _department. _That was a close one,_ Dean thinks, though thankfully he caught himself in time.

Remember all the lovesick poems, order the frou-frou coffee, bitch because he lost his chap stick again, that kinda thing. It's not his job to know those things, but he figured somewhere along the lines S- _his little brother_ had spilled the phrase at him, and it's stuck in his brain now like a piece of gum to the bottom of a shoe.

He doesn't even like the phrase, _no_, despises it actually, because it's total _bullshit_. Dean doesn't agree with this phrase _at all_, and he isn't too sure what train of thought someone's mind had to be on in order to come up with the damn thing to begin with.

_If you love something, why would you _ever _want to let it go? If you love something, you should hold on tight for dear life and don't look back or down or whatever the hell the saying is, because real love is hard to come by in this world and you can't go off, throwing that love around because you've got "insecurities." If you got 'em, and that love don't, then when you go and throw their love all willy-nilly, that's most likely gonna fuck them over and give them "insecurities" too. And what's with this "if it comes back" crap? It's not a freakin' boomerang, something you can just toy around with._

Dean's mind is a constant circuit for these questions, some he answers in his own head, and others never get any. They've got him riled up, like an animal in a cage, because that saying doesn't do him jack squat right about now.

_He_ loved something; _he_ set it free, and guess what? It can't come back. Not ever, and that's the root to this whole continuous breakdown Dean's been having. He'll never see his something again, but that sure as Hell doesn't mean they're not meant to be. An angel practically told them that they were soul mates, so what's the hold up?

In that phrase the first half is what is already known, the last half is what will be discovered. His dilemma is that he knows all the answers. _He loved something, he set it free, it can't come back, and it is meant to be._ Which can't add up to equal a stable Dean Winchester in any way, shape, or form.

He huffs out a half-laugh that dies in his throat before it gets anywhere fast, taking another swig of his "refreshment" for the day. Today it's Jack Daniels; apparently, as he reads the label, gives an uninterested grunt, and swallows another mouthful of the stuff. He sits on the tail end of his Baby, garage doors closed with the exception of the entry door, and the only thing he can hear besides his breathing is the faint sound of a lawnmower in one of the neighboring yards outside.

He hasn't touched any of it since.

Just pulled her right in and knocked on the front door exactly one month ago today. Not that he's getting shitfaced because of some sentimental anniversary, no, it just worked out that way to be exactly one month since it happened. Since his entire life, his whole reason for being, for _hoping_, got sucked into the core of the Earth and left him to fend on his own. In fact, he's been doing this practically the entire time he's been here, one way or another.

Sure, he did some small stuff like make breakfast for the kid and his mom in the morning, but nothing to pin a badge on him for.

He's been so whacked out lately, so flaky, so out of his _mind_ with grief this past month, he doesn't even remember what it feels like to _not_ be anymore. All the time, no matter if he's concentrating his damnedest, there's a small chant in the back of his mind on repeat and it won't go away. But then again, he doesn't really want it to go away.

If it stops, he's so bone-weary and scared shitless that he's gonna forget about him, about his everything, that Dean honestly would never be able to forgive himself. Even if it was for just a second, that's a second he spent living in a world little brother-less and not realizing it. That would be one moment he spent carelessly, selfishly, taking for granted everything his all sacrificed for everyone to have anything.

Dean thinks he's making sense, but he can't be too sure these days. He goes with it, because he understands, somewhat. _Hey, don't you remember that one person who always understood you, even when you didn't;_ his brain decides to chirp in. Another burning flood invades his taste buds, though he hasn't tasted a damn thing since Stull.

And isn't that _crazy?_ To think that all this; the bird chirping on the maple tree next door, the flowers in Mrs. Brook's garden producing pollen, the lawnmower running, the breeze shifting so it creates a draft into the garage and floods all his senses for a brief moment and makes him wish it would take him along with it, anywhere if it meant closer to _him_; all of this is possible, is only happening, because of his baby brother.

And isn't that a kick in the teeth? Over seven billion people have gone on with their lives since one month ago, except him. Seven _billion_ people have been walking around for a month now, without any idea as to how close this world and this species came to being overrun. And it's so damn hard, he thinks he remembers something Sa- _he_ said to him once, something about a Silent Knight and the good deeds being done only counted if nobody knew.

_Is that what he wanted? Did he want seven billion people to be selfish, ungrateful bastards every day, who don't have any clue and seriously need to get the wool pulled over their eyes as he just sits by idly, all-knowing? So that they can they all walk around, and smile, and laugh, and not thank their lucky stars every time they do so for a guy like his brother to step up to the plate and sacrifice everything in order for them to continue?_

He takes a last swig, draining the bottle of its contents…

_Because they don't._

He lowers his stiff legs off the bumper and onto the concrete, settling his weight slowly as gravity pulls him down, down, down…

_He knows they don't._

He puts one foot in front of the other slowly, as if he has to re-learn everything without _him_…

_None of them do._

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I hope you all enjoyed this! **Make sure and leave a Review, Favorite, and Follow as I will be posting the last few chapter(s) soon.** I love reviews! :)

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**If you liked this, you may also enjoy some of my other fics!** Feel free to check them out, you never know, you could like them. ;D

_**Have a great day!**_


	2. Shards Of Dean

This second chapter is set a few days after the first, exactly how many is up for you to decide.

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**Disclaimer- I do not own the boys, Supernatural, The CW, or anything else that I'm forgetting to mention. All I own are the typos. ;) Have fun reading!**

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Dean isn't a nosy person, he really isn't. If someone sets their phone down next to him and walks off, he's not gonna go racing through what's on it. He just never had that kinda curiosity, though maybe the rudeness if he ever wanted to, but he didn't want to.

So why the hell is he standing at the tail end of the Impala, trunk open, seconds away from looking through stuff that isn't his?

_He isn't even on this Earth anymore, and you're the closest relative, so that automatically makes it your stuff,_ his brain tells him. But that doesn't sit right with him. Stuff that isn't yours originally can only become yours if someone's died and left you their things, _right?_ That doesn't make it his stuff then. Because the owner of these things is not dead, has been dead before, but did not die recently in order to make them no longer his.

He knows he's not dead, he would feel it deep in his soul if his little brother was, he's just in a place where no longer living people go. Makes sense.

If someone would argue that he is dead, he would retort with _"Oh really? Show me some proof,"_ for the simple fact that there is none. There's no body, the giant gaping hole in the cemetery made sure of that. No way of putting it down on paper, in writing, stone cold that he's now the last Winchester left standing.

So he's going with the idea, _no, the fact_, that this stuff isn't his. But he wants to look through it anyways. Why, he isn't really sure. He thought he wanted absolutely nothing to do with this car and all its many contents ever again, but here he is. Like a damn siren, beckoning him to what's inside.

It's not like there's even anything grand inside the trunk anyways, except that they belong to _him_ so they mean everything to Dean.

There are two sets of duffel bags, one _his_ and one Dean's, _his_ sporty little red book bag, a bag of salt in the back half open, and underneath in the hidden compartment a wide variety of everything a hunter needs.

He isn't here for the guns, or knives, or crucifixes, or holy water down below; he's here for the stuff on top. The stuff any cop who would ever pull them over would see when they popped the trunk. The day to day stuff they carried with them, their closest belongings, the things they plopped onto their respective motel beds, their _life._ All crammed into two duffel bags and a book bag.

Not really crammed, actually, but more like _taken space in._ It's not as if they had a lot to take, they always packed light. And that's sad, isn't it? It should be sad. It's probably sad. But Dean's brain is too fuzzy with scotch and grief to get teary eyed over some bags in a trunk.

He's not even entirely sure how he got here. Not but five minutes ago, he was camped out on the living room couch. He catches the irony in that; as _if there's any kind of living going on in this room. _

The television was spitting out its usual noise, what specifically he couldn't tell you, him nursing a beer as his peripherals kept the image of his empty glass previously filled with scotch. The house was empty, Lisa at work and Ben at school.

He felt an overwhelming drag inside his chest, and he turned his head to settle on the window with its curtains pulled back, seeing the garage through the glass. That's the last thing he remembers.

Now he's here.

Dean doesn't know what he's looking for; just that he has to look. So he then decides to grab the duffel bag. _His_ duffel bag. Though the two are identical, he doesn't even have to open it to know it's his brother's.

It's all zipped up, fluffed with some air inside so that it looks it's natural cylinder shape, all its contents tucked away inside. Whereas his duffel is smashed flat, half the zippers undone and the ones that are closed caught on some fabric of clothing.

Yeah, the one he's grabbed is definitely Sa- _his baby brother's._ He pulls it up to the outer edge of the trunk and starts unzipping the top and biggest flap.

It hits him. _Hard._

He hadn't thought about it, but now it's crashing through him and threatening to break down whatever bits and pieces of himself he managed to drink together in an alcoholic daze.

_His_ smell. The best concoction he's smelt in probably his whole life, all coming out of a ratty duffel bag that still ain't even his. At first it's one big thing, but as he keeps inhaling it he's able to pick out its constituent parts; light raspberry from that damn chap stick, faint peppermint from those Tic Tacs he picked up at a gas station near Milwaukee, some actually _old_ Old Spice, gunpowder, and finally just the overpowering smell of _Sam._

And if that doesn't make him drop dead with agony on the spot, Dean doesn't know what will. He feels like his heart's pounding right out of his damned chest but frozen solid all at the same time. He said it. The one word he'd been trying not to say for over a month now. It's the one word that could be used to describe Dean and it all make sense. Like if you had to look up Dean Winchester in the dictionary all it would say is _See Sam Winchester._

He's been fighting to not say it this whole time, and now not only has he broken that promise to himself but also to not touch anything inside the Impala in one fell swoop. Dean knew that if he spoke, or even thought of his brother's name in completion, that it would tear him apart. Because there is no more _SamandDean, DeanandSam. _Because there is no more Sam, making there no more Dean either.

But what is left is the stuff he's left behind. _The people he's left behind_, he thinks. And it's all in front of him, staring right back in his face. Every time he hears his mind echo the chant of him finally thinking his brother's name he breaks inside, so much that he thinks any minute it'll leave a pile of _Dean_ shards on the garage concrete.

But right before he breaks completely, he gets another whiff of _Sam_ and it immediately glues him back together. Until he realizes he's just thought his brother's name again, leaving him breaking, again. It's all one vicious cycle that doesn't seem to end, so he gulps in some air and avoids the tears forming on the edges of his vision, and reaches out to grab something inside the duffel while he's being broken and glued.

His hand settles on a plaid flannel shirt, in variations of blue. It feels soft, but rough in that flannel kind of way. He grinds the fabric between his fingers, can practically feel the body heat pouring off of it like it would if he had touched it when Sam was wearing it. He makes some god-awful noise that's a mix between a gurgle, a throaty chuckle, and a sob, remembering how much of a furnace Sam was, even in the depths of winter.

He moves on, past a few pairs of denim, until he reaches the bottom of the bag to find the backside of a Polaroid. He laces it between is fingers and flips it over, gasping at what he sees.

It's a picture of Sam and him, the one that was taken of them at that diner when they had the rabbits foot and first got tangled with Bella. He barely glances at himself, noting the face-splitting grin and twinkle in his eyes, dragging his attention towards the pout and overall massive bitch-face his brother slapped on right when the crowd said _"Say cheese." _

It's so natural for them, yet so comical, he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. But he's pretty sure he signed off on having any kinda control over his emotions the second he walked into the garage, so he does neither.

No matter all the confetti, the streamers, the much-too-large check, or the smiles. Out of that entire picture, the only thing that could give him any kind of joy is the one thing that doesn't have any in the picture.

_Well, it's not like he's experiencing any kind of joy in reality either,_ his damned brain reminds him. And that thought rips out all the glue in between his shards, leaving them crashing to the ground and breaking into a trillion pieces like glass. The reality that his baby brother is suffering eternal torture right this very moment and he's doing nothing about it.

He throws the picture back inside the duffel and pushes the whole thing back into the trunk, slamming the lid closed.

Dean storms out of the garage, suddenly in thirst for another glass of scotch that's waiting for him in the house, and if he hears the slight sound of glass crunching under his boots as he goes, he doesn't let on.

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I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, and expect the next chapter very soon again! **Make sure to leave a Review, Favorite, and Follow as I will be adding more.**

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